


No Rest For The Wicked

by ElvenSemi



Series: Inspiration [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lavellan and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day, Near Death Experience, fade stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSemi/pseuds/ElvenSemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, life just shits on you. And sometimes, it hails shitbricks for a solid week. For Lavellan, this is one of those weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallin' For You

**Author's Note:**

> So this was all originally one chapter. And then I split it up into three chapters so that I could keep my music theme going hard. This will be a three parter, each part will have its own song title, with No Rest For The Wicked being our general overarching theme of "life keeps trying to kill Lavellan, nothing goes right for her, ever, forever, the end."

It was the first time she exercised authority as the “Herald,” the first time she took a chance, made a major decision on the fly, and refused to apologize or back down. 

She made friends and enemies in one instant when she declared the mages would be the Inquisition’s full allies. In the moment, it seemed remarkably straight forward. It was the correct decision. She could no more make slaves of the mages, shemlen though they may be, than she could make slaves of her own people. Magic was too precious to be boarded up in prisons, a mage’s mind too sacred to risk being brutalized by the Rite of Tranquility. The choice had been as clear as the sun. 

Many of her companions, however, disagreed. There were not words for how sullen Vivienne was about the new state of affairs. No sooner than the mages arrived than she was off talking about training new Templars. Her face when Lavellan flatly refused… 

“Mages are perfectly capable of policing mages, Madame de Fer,” she said coldly. The fury it must have raised in the woman to be talked down to by a knife ear a decade younger. It secretly delighted Lavellan. “Despite what Templars would have us believe, we are quite capable of detecting possession in others.” 

When the woman protested that death was the only solution to an abomination, Lavellan cut her off. Dominating the conversation felt oddly easy, as if speaking were her birthright. “Is that so, ‘First Enchanter’? Because I believe I have a man named Connor you should meet. Or perhaps you could just ask Leliana? I believe she was there. And that was done by… oh, yes, mages. Odd, that.” 

Cassandra was upset, of course, but unlike Vivienne, respected the Herald’s decision, much to Lavellan’s bewilderment. She’d thought Cassandra would be first in line behind Vivienne to tear her a new one. But the Seeker was more focused on the actual goal: getting the mages’ assistance. Lavellan succeeded. The rest, it seemed, was a pittance. Lavellan could appreciate that viewpoint, even while dodging sullen glares from Cullen. 

To her delight, however, the people whose opinions mattered either didn’t care or were actively pleased. Oh sure, Sera was whining and ringing her hands about magic, as she was wont to do, but there was no opinion in the Inquistion that mattered less when it came to magic. Lavellan also suspected that her decision might be part of why her new Tevinter ally chose to stay. But Leliana was pleased (and she one of the only people whose opinion one way or the other might change Lavellan’s mind, out of fear if nothing else), and Solas was pleased. 

Oh, yes, Solas was pleased. It practically glowed from him on the ride back from Recliffe; a great comfort to her after her ordeal. He smiled at her, and he called her lethallin, once. The sound made her heart soar, dissipated her quiet longing for familiar, Dalish faces. She was someone’s lethallin again. With a lethallin, she could feel a little bit like she actually belonged. 

And the distraction was good, because as it turned out, being thrust repeatedly through time had ill effects on a person, both physically and, in her case, mentally. Both she and Dorian were on the queasy side. The older shemlen mage seemed hardened by the things they’d seen, determined. Corypheus must be stopped, he’d said, as if it was his new Ultimate Truth. He was not wrong, but she suspected her own newfound vitriol was for reasons apart from his. 

She had watched Solas, Blackwall, and Leliana die. 

They were strangers to Dorian. The horror of seeing people killed was muted by the horror of seeing red lyrium physically growing out of a living person. But death in general was a newer concept to Lavellan. She’d killed her first man after the Conclave, although that was her dirty little secret. Demons and beasts she could slaughter without pause, but humans still disturbed her in some ways. And she’d yet to kill an elf. 

Seeing the broken, bloody bodies of people, real people, people she knew, people who were only there because of _her_ …

She felt the bile rise in her throat just in time to lean off the horse she was riding, expelling the contents of her writhing guts onto the pathway. The trail of horses slowed slightly as those behind her abruptly stopped, and those in front slowed to see what was happening. She swayed, dizziness threatening to overtake her again, nearly falling off her horse. 

Solas was beside her, on a horse of his own, steadying her in the saddle. 

“Easy, lethallin.” 

Lethallin. If words could heal wounds, that was the word, and he was the person to say it. She leaned up against him; he was as a rock, something to cling to in storm tossed waters of nausea and pain. Her head, slowly, began to clear. She became aware of several worried faces watching her. 

“Ir abelas… I mean, sorry,” she said, correcting herself. Unlike Solas, she made an effort not to speak elven to her shemlen friends, lest she confuse them or come across as arrogant. Too elfy, Sera would say. She disliked Sera, but the elven lass was a good measure for what the shemlens were thinking, but not saying. “I’m just a little dizzy.” 

“You almost fell off your horse. Again.” Blackwall’s voice was firm, but concerned. 

“Dorian _actually_ fell off his horse,” she pointed out. It was a flimsy defense. It almost worked in the opposite direction. 

“Which is why we tied him to the saddle.” 

“Which I don’t appreciate by the way,” came Dorian’s delightfully accented voice. “I look ridiculous.” 

“You looked more ridiculous falling off of a horse,” Blackwall replied. 

“I’m not going to be tied to a horse,” Lavellan said firmly. “Dorian does look ridiculous.” 

“Thanks ever so much.” 

Solas let out a sigh, which she barely noticed over the bickering. She paid him no mind until she felt two firm hands on her waist, and before she could turn to look, she was being lifted and dragged off of her own mount and onto Solas’. She protested, loudly, although even if she’d possessed the energy to fight back, she wouldn’t have, lest she risk hurting either of them, or the horse. He laid her across the saddle on her stomach, like a sack of grain or a kidnapped maiden. 

“You can sit up and ride properly if you behave,” he scolded. “Your pride is less important than your safety.” 

“I don’t want to hear a lecture on pride from someone named Solas,” she grumbled, but she quit squirming. She felt enough like a child, being physically picked up and moved, and enough like a damsel, being thrown over a saddle horn. The last thing she wanted was to be demoted back to da’len. Instead, she used Solas as a post to lean against as she sat herself up and swung one leg over the horse, taking care to knee him in the stomach as she did so. He didn’t even give her the courtesy of wincing, but he did slide backwards to allow her to sit in front of him on the saddle. 

Without being asked, Blackwall grabbed the reins of her horse. The jealousy in his eyes told her that he regretted not putting her on his horse first, but she suspected he knew she would put up with things from Solas that she would never put up with from a shemlen. No matter how fascinating his beard. She reminded herself to get him drunk enough to allow her braid it, and soon. 

Despite her indignation about being manhandled, she had to admit it was comforting, riding with Solas. She could lean back against him, and he would not protest; the warmth of his body could almost chase away the red-tainted images burning behind her eyelids. When dizziness took her, she would fall back against him, and he would steady her, letting her borrow his strength. 

She was not used to someone close enough to steady her, not until her life was torn apart by the breach in the heavens. Her Clan kept her at arm’s length, for reasons she always assumed were to do with her being the Keeper’s precious First. It hadn’t bothered her overly much; they still spoke to her, and she was sworn in duty to them, as First, not the other way around. 

Still, she and Solas must have looked a sight, sharing a horse. She relished in it, wished a little bit that she could see it from the outside looking in. She leaned back against him again, tucking her head neatly under his chin. There were benefits to being small, she thought to herself smugly. He surprised her when he rested his chin down on her head, but she said nothing. Much like the “incident” in the tent, she was content to let happy moments sit quietly, lest she ruin them by speaking. They rode on like that, the peace in her heart steadying the turmoil of her twisting stomach. 

-

Both she and Dorian were feeling better by the time they stopped to camp. They managed to down some soup, and chatted with each other while they sat by the fire. She avoided the elephant in the room; elves and Tevinter had a long and rather bloody history. Bloody in that the elves bled and Tevinter was covered in it. 

Dorian was not so tactful. When he brought up spirits, enslaved in his homeland much the same way they enslaved elves, she winced. While a subject she personally could ignore, they were hardly in private. Before she could attempt to direct attention away, however, Solas interrupted. 

“They are intelligent, living creatures. Binding them against their will is reprehensible.” 

She chuckled nervously. This was going to get quite ugly, quite quickly. “Um, yes, shame so many are being drawn through the rifts. I should-“ 

“There's no harm putting them to constructive use, and most mages back home treat them well.” Ah, they were playing the game of ‘completely ignore Lavellan.’ She was familiar with the rules; it was a game the Inquisition played often. An tiny elf not yet two decades in age was easy to ignore when the serious conversations began. 

“And any that show any magical talent are freed, I would assume?” 

Lavellan choked into her soup at Solas’ words. He’d pointed out what she was thinking, but Dorian did not seem to have caught on. His confused expression said it all. 

“I believe,” she interjected, a smirk dancing across her lips. “That our esteemed friend thought you were talking about Tevinter’s slaves. I admit, the mistake is an easy one to make.” 

Dorian turned his glare onto her as Solas chuckled. 

“My family’s slaves were-“ 

“Stop.” Lavellan was startled to find that the hard voice that spoke, one that allowed no discussion, was her own. Dorian looked as surprised by the tone of her voice as she felt. “I like you, Dorian. I want to continue liking you. For that to happen, I will require that a noble born Tevinter mage not attempt to justify slavery to an elf.” 

Dorian, to his credit, flushed. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know, Dorian. But if I have learned one thing recently,” her eyes cast over to Solas. “It is to avoid speaking of the ‘right’ way of doing things before one has honestly explored the options. And also not to speak of the merits of a group to someone who may have been directly harmed by it.” 

“That sounds like a lesson hard won,” Dorian said, following her gaze over towards Solas. 

“It was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by the committee of "Seriously, Dorian, What The FUCK Was THAT?"
> 
> If you're playing an elf or a mage, it is extra awkward when he's like well YOU DON'T KNOW what it's like to NOT BE FREE or to be POVERTYISH, and it's like... Dorian. Dorian. You are. A noble born. Mage. From Tevinter. Trying to lecture. A DALISH. ELF. About poverty. What... what are you doing right now? This thing you are doing right now, stop doing it.
> 
> Also brought to you by the Committee of Lavellan Is Getting In Too Deep. The song this time is Colbie Caillat's Fallin' For You, so enjoy listening to that, applying to to Solavellan in your head, and then crying for a while.


	2. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody ever listens to the elf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I deviate from canon. More about that below.

“Herald, please, relax. The breach is sealed, the day, for now at least, is won. Have a drink,” Cassandra cajoled, trying to calm the pacing Dalish. 

“For once, I agree with the Seeker.” Lavellan would never have imagined Cassandra and Varric would one day team up against her. “Calm down.” 

“No! Something’s not right! I can… I can feel it in my teeth!” Lavellan snarled. “We’re here celebrating, but something feels wrong.” 

“There is much that remains to be done, but for tonight-“ Cassandra began. 

“Enough!” Lavellan snapped. “I’m… I’m going for a walk. Have _someone_ stay sober enough to keep a watch out.” 

She stormed off, her entire body a quivering mess of nerves, anxiety like lightning darting through her veins. She needed to get out; she could feel the scant walls of Haven closing in around her. She shoved her way past the guards, ignored the concerned looks from a few of her friends. She needed space. 

The woods were a comfort. She found herself invariably in the clearing where she and Solas once camped, the night when he repaired her connection to the Fade, revealed her a Dreamer. Hmm… that would be a fun fact to share with Dorian, when she felt it safe, if she ever felt it safe. Somniari was a pretty word. He would be jealous. 

Danger still tingled at the back of her neck. She wished she knew where this senseless anxiety came from. The whole world felt off balance. There were almost far off whispers, as if she could… 

“Danger, harm, hurt come to claim you. Stealing what’s yours, lusting after your voice, your place, your face.” 

She stood up, spinning around. Where had that voice come from? There was no one- Wait. A figure, on the other side of the clearing. She palmed her staff, nervously. “Who are you? Name yourself!” She ordered. 

The thing looked up. A face she recognized. She lowered her staff, bewildered. “Lord Seeker Lu-“ 

Suddenly, he was on her, too fast for a human, surely. He grasped at her neck, choking her voice away as she opened her mouth for an incantation. She reached for her magic, but instead only felt twisting, pulling, fading. The last sounds she heard were from the Lord Seeker’s mouth. 

“Finally.” 

-

She was not a fool. Her experience with the Fade was limited, but in the scant time she spent in it, in Solas’ company, she learned much. She knew a dream when she saw one. But this creature, threatening, murderous, and obsessed, so disturbingly obsessed, was new to her. She’d no experiences with demons since she was a child, and Envy was completely outside her understanding. She’d never even _heard_ of an envy demon! Solas would know. Cullen would know. Hell, Vivienne would know! There was no doubt in her mind that it targeted her because of her weakness. 

Still, she fought to keep her calm. In knowing she dealt with a demon, half the battle was already won, or so Solas would have told her. Sure, she was utterly without an idea on HOW, exactly, to combat a demon that already had her in its grasp. One that sought not possession, which Solas was teaching her to avoid, but to _become_ her, so completely that she ceased to exist. 

“You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?” 

That… was not the Envy demon. It sounded like the voice she’d heard in the clearing, and twinged like the anxiety that plagued her in Haven. Perhaps she rested in the Fade after all, and another spirit deigned to interfere. She sought after the voice, and found it in the form of a very strange looking young man. She was not overly accustomed to spirits looking like humans, but there was no doubt that he was a spirit, of some kind. And he offered advice. 

“So, what? I just… keep going, and tire Envy out?” 

“Yes. Hopefully. It’s better than sitting around, waiting to lose your face.” 

His unintentionally humorous phrasing made Lavellan snort with laughter. “Alright… ‘Cole.’ I will take any assistance I can get. A demon in the Inquisition would do no one any good, although this Envy is an idiot to think that no one would notice.” She snorted, imitating an imitation. “’Begins to match my ambition.’ What ambition have I? Foolish demon vastly over-estimates my reach.” 

“He under-estimates your friends, you under-estimate your power.” 

“That is incredibly unnerving, Cole.” 

-

Her show of bravado, however, was mostly just that: a show. She was shaking by the time she saw Cole again. It was as much the demon as it was the disturbing imagery. Her mind was so fresh with raw fear that the demon easily found things to throw at her; dead friends, Solas broken and battered, red lyrium spiking out of his corpse, this time, not infected by Corypheus but by her, by the demon pretending to be her. And through it all, the demon’s desire to be her made her shudder. She was unfamiliar with the pressure of obsession, pouring through the Fade to push on her from all sides. 

“It’s not the Fade, it’s your mind,” Cole told her. “Outside, everything is creeping, lagging; hands around your neck slowly tighten.” 

“Oh, well, that’s a pleasant thought. I need to get everything that isn’t me out. Including you. No offense.” 

“I’m not offended. You should be the only thing in your head.” 

“Get out, thing!” came the shrill voice of the demon. She enjoyed hearing it rattled. That it could be rattled made her feel more confident that Cole knew what he was doing, that he could help her defeat Envy. 

“Keep going,” he urged, before disappearing into a wall. 

-

She was caked in fear and sweat by the end, climbing endless stairs in an unfamiliar tower. She forced herself on, flinching away from scenes of mutilation wrought by the Inquisition. But each seemed more hollow than the last. She swore she’d seen Leliana’s head six times now, Iron Bull red and hornless three times. It was running out of horrors to throw at her. 

“Not fair, not fair,” a voice behind her hissed. She spun around, to see the shape of herself, glaring at her, but incomplete, coal black in places where it hadn’t learned her shape. “That thing kept you whole; kept you from giving yourself to me!” 

“What could you gain from being me?” she taunted, although she backed away from the demon. 

“What could you… UGH!” It lashed out towards her, and she darted backwards. 

“We’ll start again,” it whispered, coming towards her as she felt her back press against a wall that escaped her notice moments ago. “More pain, this time. The Elder One still comes.” 

Now that was alarming. The Elder One mentioned in Redcliffe… Coming? Coming HERE? Shit. 

Cole appeared, bringing his pestering to a climax, and while the Envy demon glanced away, to swat at the boy-spirit, Lavellen lunged forward, uncertain from where she summoned the dagger in her hand from. She plunged it into the mirror image of her and- 

White spun around her, flashing light, falling snow. A screech, as her vision returned. There was a monster in front of her, all ugly scars and pallid flesh, too many limbs, none in the right places. Demons always did look terrifying outside of the Fade. She groped for her staff, fallen in the snow next to her. 

“Lethanna!” A voice echoed towards her. Only moments had passed, surely, but someone was chasing after her, probably alarmed by her sudden fleeing of Haven into the snow. She did not turn to look, keeping her eyes on the monster. 

“Selfish with your glory; you kept yourself from me!” it screeched, a voice she recognized from her own head. “Now I am no one!” 

As she threw up a barrier around herself, she recognized a familiar form behind the Envy demon… Cole, outside of her head, but looking very much the same, a dagger in each hand. She threw a bolt of fire, taunting it back towards the blonde spirit, and he sank his daggers into its back. Not a moment later, a wall of ice shot up out of the snow between her and the demon. Solas was the one chasing her. He was not alone, she found, as a bolt sank into the demon’s chest. 

“I have never been happier to see you two,” she shouted over the screeching demon. “It’s an Envy demon! Kill it; _kill it!_ ” 

The four made short work of the monster, snow rapidly staining black and red. When the beast finally lay dead, before she was given a chance to breathe, Solas was on her, gripping her by her shoulders and shaking her. She really wished he wouldn’t; it’d been a very bad couple of days for her. 

“What were you thinking, running off into the snow like that?” he snarled. Her eyes widened at the vitriol in his voice, the panic in his eyes. 

“I-I… I just wanted some air. I… felt like something bad was going to happen, but no one would listen. I… I panicked.” Guilt began settling in over her heart in heavy sheets. She’d been foolish again, and Solas looked furious. And this after he’d _just_ begun to call her lethallin. 

“Yeah, I’ve got to accept some responsibility here,” injected Varric, who looked just as concerned about the Herald being shaken like a rag doll. “I didn’t think you would run off like that, though,” he added, looking hurt. 

“I’m… sorry?” she asked, her head spinning, and not just from the thorough shaking. “But, I’m okay, thanks to… Cole? Where did Cole go?” 

“Who?” Varric asked, looking confused, as Solas finally released his iron grip on her shoulders, stepping away to rub at his forehead. 

“The boy, with the hat,” she muttered, spinning around as she searched the blood stained terrain. “He helped with the demon?” 

“I didn’t see anyone but you, twinkle-toes.” Varric’s voice was concerned. Probably not good to talk about people no one else could see right after a run in with a demon. She didn’t want to get another holy smite for her troubles. 

A memory hit her. “Shit. Shit! We have to get back to Haven, NOW!” 

“Wh-“ 

“That stupid demon said the Elder One is coming! We have to get back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do it. It always drove me insane, in the game. Oh, the time rift things sort themselves out? Guess it wasn't as bad as "tearing the word apart" after all, Dorian, you drama queen. Oh, the envy demon just sort of goes away, never to be seen or heard from again? Alrighty. Guess it wasn't THAT obsessed with me. Good to know, all of these problems would have sorted themselves out for the most part if I'd kept my ass out of it. 
> 
> Nah, heck with that, I decided the envy demon would march with the red templars. Why wouldn't it? Plus it lets me add this section to the ever growing list of "reasons Varric thinks the Inquisior is actually Avatar of Bad Luck". 
> 
> Last chapter will be out tomorrow.


	3. Time of Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: It's Not My Time. Time travel, demons, darkspawn magisters, dragons, and after all of that, nearly dying of exposure. It's a bad day all around.

Lavellan moved slowly, a little awestruck that she was still alive. She was fairly sure she was alive. She never hurt this much in the Fade. She checked over herself slowly. Her left arm was an utter failure, her shoulder completely removed from its socket from the force with which this “Elder One,” this “Corypheus” had flung her against the trebuchet. She prodded herself gently, wincing. She likely broke a rib or two, either from the collision with the trebuchet, or from falling down… wherever she'd fallen. A mining shaft, it looked. There were tunnels upon tunnels in the mountains surrounding the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but she couldn’t believe the luck to literally fall into a hole rather than be crushed to death by pounds of snow and rock. If not Andraste, _someone_ was certainly looking out for her. 

Her ankle was at least twisted, but that was a minor complaint when compared to her ribs and shoulder. But the important thing was, she could move. At first all she could manage was a slow limp, but she eventually picked up speed, breathing shallowly to avoid a stabbing pain. She just needed to find an exit, and then she could. 

Ah. 

Those were demons. That was a rift. She, weak and broken, without even a staff, was now expected to take on a few despair demons and close a rift. With a sigh, she brought up her hand. She didn’t even have the strength to be frightened; she felt as though she was living on borrowed time as it was. She'd honestly been prepared to die when she left the Chantry. She'd gotten more than she hoped when a blast of dragon fire separated her from her companions, giving them a chance to flee to safety. She would be the only one to die. 

And she lived. 

And now demons didn’t really scare her, despite the flashes of red lyrium and dead friends writhing behind her eyes. She brought her hand up, ostensibly to cast a spell, and her mark, Corypheus’ “Anchor,” went insane. She stared in panic as her hand twisted on its own, the mark shredding a vaccuumous hole in the Veil itself, brutally sucking the screaming demons back from wence they came. Then the hole snapped shut. 

She stared blankly at her hand for a moment. Corypheus’ meddling? Did he meant to use this mark to tear the Veil asunder? And here she was using it to heal the holes in the Veil. Scissors turned to sewing. 

Right. Well. No use dwelling on it now. She possessed the ability to rip open a hellmouth and swallow her enemies alive. She would tuck that under “useful tricks” and panic about it to Dorian later. 

If he was alive. 

If she was alive. 

She limped along, and eventually, found the open sky. It almost looked strange, without the breach. She certainly couldn’t tell where she was. Open tundra; she couldn’t see the forests she might recognize from around Haven. And there was a blizzard. Because there would have to be a blizzard. It could not be a nice, clear day outside. That would be too easy. 

And she was wearing light battle robes… 

Well. 

Time to walk. 

She managed to find what she suspected was the trail the refugees of Haven had left, a dropped bag here, a cold fire there. But the wind was picking up, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her. Eventually, when she stumbled into a large tree, she knew she needed to stop and rest. Her legs and arms were freezing and numb, her useless shoulder swelling, the pain in her sides blinding. She sank into the snow, resting her back against the tree. 

Just a quick rest… then she’d get back up. 

-

The Fade was a painless bliss compared to the pain and ice of her barely living body. She felt as though she was floating through time, but whispers in her ears brought her out of the warm glow. 

“I can save you.” 

“Let me in.” 

“It’s not your time.” 

Her mind snapped into focus, recognizing the whispers of demons for what they were, after her hellish experience with Envy. 

“Be gone, wretches,” she hissed. “I have my own strength, and no need for yours.” 

Her voice rang a little hollow, however, even to her own ears. She’d survived time travel and demons and ancient darkspawn magisters and even avalanches. But perhaps all of them, combined with a blizzard, would be enough to slay the great “Herald of Andraste.” Even her luck had to run out eventually. She could feel herself being tugged down, and suddenly her breath grew shallow. Hard to suck in enough air to live. Pressure on her chest, like pounds of snow, broken ribs, the weight of ice and responsibility. 

“Let us help.” 

“You don’t want to die, do you?” 

“Without you, the world will surely end.” 

“They don’t want you, they just want that cursed hand of yours.” 

“Lethallin, hold on.” 

The last one snapped through the cold weights like the sun itself. Solas? It was possible. This was the Fade. His voice came from a distance, as if echoing through the mountains, through the Fade. It could be a demon pretending to be him. But she needed something to hold onto. 

“Solas? Hahren, is that you?” 

“Lethallin, you need to wake up,” his voice urged. “You have to keep moving. **Wake up!** ” 

Eyes snapped open. She was half buried in snow, even where she hid underneath a tree. She stood up with great difficulty. The weight had been pushing her broken ribs into her lungs. She was lucky she hadn’t punctured anything. 

The first few steps were just her crawling, but she did eventually manage to get to her feet. At this point there was no way she could do anything but limp, one arm shielding her face from the bitter winds, the other clutching at her chest, clawing at her shattered ribs. 

Several times, she felt as though she fell asleep on her feet. Maybe it was all in her head, but she could swear that she felt herself drifting in and out of the Fade. She would fall without noticing, only realizing when Solas’ voice urged her to stand. She’d claw herself out of the rapidly falling snow, only to lose her sense of direction. Everything was a misty, freezing white as snow flurried around her. She seemed like she could see lights, off in the distance, and desperately she chased after them, but she found herself slipping out of consciousness, or into the Fade, so often that she found herself wondering if they were even real. 

If not for Solas’ voice, be it him, or a demon, or a product of her own broken mind, she probably would have collapsed into the snow and let the Fade gently cradle her soul away into the afterlife. Better that than risk giving her body over to a demon. Dreamers made the most terrifying abominations, and with her mark, an abomination out of her could spell the end of the world as easily as Corypheus could. The envy demon had shown her that much. 

But she shuffled on, until one time, when she fell, her hand hit something hot. 

Burning in fact, searing into her flesh, but she was too confused, and then too ecstatic, to pay any mind to the pain, having written off the dislocated arm ages before. The pain was caused by her hand striking a coal, still burning inside. When it split open, it minorly scorched her skin, leaving her blistering uncomfortably. But coals didn’t stay hot long in a blizzard. People were here, not long ago. 

She stumbled forward, half dragging herself up a steep hill, Solas’ voice urging her on, a constant song ringing in her ears, a poem of sweet encouragement, a marching anthem for her half dead body. She was a little bit more sheltered from the wind now. Glancing around, she found it was because she was in a valley, stone walls blocking her in. For once, she welcomed the idea of walls and roofs, missing the stupid, warm little cottage they’d given her in Haven. 

Perversely, she missed the Inquisition, even though her life since the Conclave was one chaotic train wreck. Sure, they indirectly wrecked her life. Particularly Cassandra. Thanks, Cassandra. But they were also her friends, and even the coldest of them was closer to her than any member of her Clan. Heck, if she closed her eyes one last time, she could almost hear their voices. 

She sank down to her knees, letting out a long sigh. First she hallucinated Solas’ voice, now she was hearing Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen. This was probably it for her. She’d tried, but in the end, maybe it was just one hardship too many. She drifted gently into blackness, wondering what the afterlife would be like.

-

She thought she dreamt being carried, that strong arms supporting her battered body was just a wisp of dream from the Fade. She faded in and out of dreams, voices echoing around her, warmth, a delirious tingling. Was this dying? 

But eventually, her eyes opened, and once again, she was dumbfounded to find she yet lived. She tried to sit up, crackling with old pain, but dulled. Someone had worked healing on her, possibly several someones, judging from the traces of mana that still lingered on her skin and in the air around her. Of all the people to urge her gently back onto the bedroll, Mother Giselle was probably the person Lavellan least expected to see. But it made sense; the woman was experienced in dealing with the horrifically wounded. 

“Where am I?” Lavellan choked out. When it became clear that she was not going back to sleep, Mother Giselle handed her a mug of something warm and spicy. It soothed her cracked throat as the priestess answered. 

“We are in the mountains, hidden. You are with the Inquisition.” 

“You made it out alive,” she said with a long sigh of relief. She’d seen the arrow, but she hadn’t really known. Then her eyes flashed open again. “What about Cassandra? Iron Bull, Sera? Did they make it out?” 

“Yes, Herald, they all made it. They said they were separated from you, by the dragon.” 

Lavellan nodded slowly. “Yes… I met… Ye gods, I’m not looking forward to explaining all of this.” She winced as the shouting from across the camp grew louder. The leaders of the Inquisition were fighting. “What’s going on?” 

“They fight because they are scared,” Mother Giselle said, although that didn’t really answer Lavellan’s question at all. “And because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand... and fall. And now we have seen her return. The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear, and the more our trials seem ordained. That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure? What we, perhaps, must come to believe?” 

Lavellan shook her head, slowly, pushing herself up off the cot despite her body’s protests. “I didn’t die, Mother Giselle. I was lucky. How badly injured was I? Faith had no hand in this.” She knew who did, however. Where was the tricky elf, whose voice urged her through pain and blizzards? She stood up with a wince, and began limping towards the fire, in hopes of settling the Inquisitions leaders, if nothing else. 

And that was when Mother Giselle began to sing. 

It was, admittedly, calming. The song was beautiful, in a way Lavellan never realized human hymns could be. Then others joined in. Was this how it felt to Solas, when he heard echoes of beautiful songs dance through the Fade? Surely sleepers in this area would hear the memory of this song for years to come. 

And then they started kneeling, and things began getting very uncomfortable. They weren’t just singing. They were singing to HER. She treated the idea of being the Herald of Andraste something akin to a joke, feeling that it would wear off, like a silly childhood nickname. But to these shemlen, it was real. She was real. They believed her to be like unto their god. And all she’d managed to do was seal a breach with stolen magic, then proceed to nearly get them all killed by a mad magister chasing after her. They shouldn’t worship her. They shouldn’t even like her! 

And then Solas hand was on her arm, gentle. “A word, if you have a moment.” 

She followed him like a bolt shot from Bianca, wanting to escape from the worshipful eyes of the humans. She was a Herald of nothing but being in the wrong place at the right time. 

To her surprise, his posture was relaxed, where hers was tense from pain and fear. He almost seemed to be… sauntering, which wasn’t a verb she’d thought she would use to describe the older elf. The last time she’d seen him, his body had been tense, his eyes fraught with panic. She still felt that way, but he seemed unperturbed, somehow, by the events of the past few days. 

She thought she might drown in his pretty praises, there by the veilfire torch. She wanted to ask him if it was truly been his voice she heard through the Fade, when she lay dying in the snow, but she never got the chance. Instead, he dropped on her the news that the orb she’d seen Corypheus wield was elvhen. How quickly could the worship turn back into mobs if that news got out. She agreed with him. It absolutely needed to be kept quiet under any circumstances. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time a magister stole from the elves and claimed it their own,” she said with a scowl. “Hopefully they will be willing to believe it’s Tevinter in origin. Only Dorian may know better.” She glanced over her shoulder at the camp. “But for right now, I need something to do with all these people. Their hymns can only carry them so far.” 

“You can lead them, lethallin. They will follow.” 

She shook her head. “I would call you a liar, if I could. I wish I couldn’t believe that a group of Andrastian humans would follow a Dalish elf yet to see two decades. But you’re right. They would follow a three legged cat if it had survived Corypheus.” 

“Do not underestimate your role in this, lethallin,” Solas said, and the firmness in his voice startled her. She turned to look at him, and his face was serious. “They follow because you lead.” 

Lavellan flushed slightly. “Ah… And what of you, hahren? Will you be following me?” Flirting was becoming a defense mechanism for her. 

“The view would surely be admirable.” It was a terrible defense mechanism, at that, as Solas was better at it than she. She felt a flush creeping up her ears despite the cold. “But I feel that for now, I must give direction. I know where we can take the Inquisition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time of Dying by Three Days Grace barely won out over It's Not My Time by 3 Doors Down. There was a lot of dying and a lot of three, all around. 
> 
> Thank you for putting up with my need to get plot out of the way. Hopefully we can now continue your regular updates of silly elves and boners.


End file.
